


Forgetful

by deadinderry



Category: Bandom, Metallica
Genre: Period-Typical Homophobia, au i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 16:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19398394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadinderry/pseuds/deadinderry
Summary: He'd forgotten his wallet, he definitely wasn't going to leave it with them, but he hadn't expected them to replace him so fast.





	Forgetful

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of an AU sort of thing, I guess? Like a 'what-if-Dave-had-run-into-Kirk-as-Kirk-was-coming-to-replace-him' kind of thing. I've thought of different iterations of this but this is the one that stuck I guess.

Dave didn’t have his wallet.

“Fuck,” he muttered. He was _there_ , he was at the fucking bus station ( _fucking bus station)_ , pretty much everything he owned in his hands, and he didn’t have his fucking wallet. It was back with the guys. The fucking traitors, yeah, those guys. If it had been like, a pack of smokes or something, he could’ve just left it.

But he needed his wallet.

He checked the time on the ticket. He was going to miss his bus. They kick him out, put him on a bus, push him out the door so fast he _forgets_ his _wallet,_ and now he’s gonna have to pay his own way back anyways, because the assholes hadn’t woken him up until an hour before the bus left. Because he wasn’t going to leave his wallet with them. You’d think that they’d maybe mail it to him, or something, but they wouldn’t. He knew that they wouldn’t. All of them were pieces of shit.

So he turned around and started walking back. He got more pissed off each block he walked (because he _had_ to walk, he didn’t have any cash for a cab, because his _fucking wallet_ was gone), and by the time he got back to where those fucking traitors were, he was pretty much ready to kick all of their asses, demand another bus ticket (no, he’d tell them plane ticket or he’d kick all their asses again), grab his wallet, and go make another band. All of their good guitar parts were his anyway. Without him, with whatever loser they were shipping in to replace him, they’d be second-rate at best.

Fueled by all of this, he burst through the door, not even bothering knocking, dropped his shit, and opened his mouth to yell when he zeroed in on it. Him. Him, being that dork from Exodus, who was apparently his replacement. The one who showed up with comic books shoved in his back pocket and wouldn’t shut up about horror movies if you gave him half a chance.

“What the _fuck_?” was what he said, instead of the rage-speech he’d planned on the way in. “What the fuck, you’re replacing me with _Hammett?”_

Kirk Hammett looked at him with wide eyes. He was wearing these big fucking glasses that made him look like a bug. He bared his teeth in something Dave figured was supposed to be either a grimace or a grin or some way of placating him—either way, it didn’t do shit, because Dave still wanted to break his glasses and then his teeth and then beat him to death with his own fucking guitar.

“Dave—” Lars started, but Dave shook his head and took a couple steps toward Hammett. Hammett just sat there, his fingers visibly tightening around the guitar but not doing anything to run or defend himself or anything. The guy had always struck Dave as being kind of a pussy.   
“I left twenty minutes ago,” Dave said. “Was he hiding out outside or something?”

“We thought it was pretty lucky you guys didn’t run into each other,” Lars muttered, and Dave glared at him. He hid behind Cliff, who was standing. No sign of James.

“Why are you back, Dave?” Cliff said. Miracle that fucker was even up—though, Dave guessed, with _Kirk_ here now, apparently that was important enough to wake up for. Not kicking Dave to the curb, no—but trying out the new kid, that was important enough to wake up for.

“You guys pushed me out so fast I forgot my wallet,” Dave said. “By the way, you owe me another fucking—fucking way out of here, because I missed my bus, because of my wallet, because—”

“That’s on you if you missed your bus,” Lars said, relatively steady behind Cliff. Get Cliff out of there and Lars would be backing up so fast he’d trip and fall on his ass. “I gave you time to pack.”

“ _Barely,_ ” Dave snarled. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and whipped around to see Hammett standing up. “You stay right where you fucking are, I’m not done with you.”

“Dude—” Hammett said. “Dude, I—uh—”

“Shut up.”

Hammett shut up.

“Where the hell is Hetfield?” Dave asked.

“Bathroom,” Cliff said. He looked at Dave, so steady it pissed Dave off. “Get your wallet and get out, man. Don’t start shit this morning.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Dave said. Cliff raised an eyebrow, and Dave was faced with the choice of whose ass he was going to have to kick. Obviously Hammett, if not today, then when they got back to California. Obviously Lars—Lars had been on the list as soon as he’d woken Dave up and told him he was out. Obviously Cliff and James had to be on that list, too, just for agreeing with Lars on kicking him out, but maybe he’d have to check Cliff off right now. “You couldn’t wait ten fucking minutes before getting a new guitarist? You had him picked out, you had to have him picked out, or you—he wouldn’t—how long were you gonna let me think we were cool?”

Cliff shrugged. “Until we found someone. And Kirk said yes. And he’s a good guy.”

“Is he,” Dave said. “Is he a good fucking guy.”

“He is,” Cliff said. “Get your wallet and get out, Dave.”

That was the thing—at this point, he had to swing at someone. He had to get his wallet, but he had to swing at someone, too. Lars was hiding behind Cliff still like the fucking pussy he was, and as much as he hated him right now, Dave kind of had zero clue how to go about hitting Cliff Burton in the face, and anyway, the easiest, best target was right on his other side anyway. He’d find his wallet—which wasn’t that hard, actually, it only took a couple of minutes, he must’ve had it and it fell out of his pocket or anything. He looked up and Cliff was still watching him. Lars was still behind him. James must have fucking died in the bathroom or they’d been lying about him being in there in the first place, because he didn’t show.

Hammett had put down his guitar and was standing up against the wall like he knew what was going to happen. Like he was trying to get out of the line of fire. Like he wasn’t a shitty guitar player and a pussy and probably a faggot on top of it all. He flinched a little when Dave looked at him, and he flinched a lot when Dave got him by the collar.

“Dave—” he heard behind him, but he barely heard it. It drifted in enough that he recognized it but not enough that he paid any attention. The only thing he was paying attention to now was Hammett, who was shaking like a chihuahua and had his hands up like it was going to protect him at all. Hammett wasn’t quite as short as Lars, but he was still short. And scrawny. And had a weak sort of defense that was very easy to punch past.

His fist hit Hammett right in the cheek, knocking his glasses half-off of his face, and Dave was reaching for those when there were arms dragging him back. He twisted and threw back an elbow, and heard a grunt, and threw it back again. And then there were four hands—either Lars had grown some balls, or—

No, no, James had resurrected from his fucking sabbatical in the bathroom.

Hammett was bent double, his hands pressed against his face. Dave spat at him. Sent some froth straight into that curly dark head of his. “What the fuck are you doing here?” James growled, and then Cliff let him go, and then James, who had apparently lost all prior knowledge of who Dave was as a person, let him go too, and Dave lunged for Hammett again. James caught him pretty quick and threw him backward. He stumbled. “Dave. What the _fuck_ are you doing here.”

“Forgot my wallet,” Dave said. He was breathing hard. He kept looking at Hammett, who was standing straight up again. Still rubbing at his face. Looked like he was going to have a nice bruise. “You bastards don’t waste any goddam time, do you?”

“You need to leave,” James said. He was completely straight-faced. For some reason, for some stupid fucking reason, seeing James like that, seeing James look at him like _he_ was the enemy, like _he_ was the interloper, that hurt him deep in the pit of his stomach more than anything else. More than Lars telling him to go in the first place. More than Cliff telling him to get his wallet and get out.

“Don’t use my stuff,” Dave said. He knew he’d said it to Lars, but he said it again. His voice shook, and he hated that, too. “Don’t you fucking dare use my stuff.”

“Whatever, Dave, just get out.”

And he went.


End file.
